Monday started in panic. I work from home and I was heading downstairs casually to my desk in the kitchen when I looked up at the clock and suddenly remembered I had a doctor’s appointment in five minutes. I made it just in time. I’d waited a couple of weeks for the appointment and I was initially concerned that by the time he sees me, my knees won’t be playing up, but the very brisk walk/run to the surgery had made sure they were suitably aching.
The male doctor asked me to take my jeans off so he could examine me. Now, I haven’t done that since I was about 15, when I went in for a stomach ache and my doctor at the time casually cupped my balls. At the time, I figured, “Well… he’s a doctor. Doctors should be trusted, right?” But yeah. Not right. So with a little trepidation and the trauma of that incident in my mind, I stripped to my pants and lay on the couch.
Turns out he had a lovely bedside manner so no ball action this time. Just a polite prod of the knees and a promise of an X-ray. Despite being a little embarrassed that I was wearing odd socks, I walked out feeling proud that I’d faced one of my demons (undressing in front of a doctor), though a tiny part of me thought: Would it have been that bad if he did touch my balls? Let’s be honest, at this stage in life, any physical contact – medical or otherwise – feels like a minor victory. That thought faded quickly as I headed into Bloxwich.
I swung by Specsavers for some new reading glasses. Did my usual dad routine: put them on and announce, “I don’t look like a paedo do I?” She laughed, though I felt a sense of awkwardness from the young girl, but it made me giggle. Then on to Greggs for a steak bake and Marshall’s for a bag of sweets.
I was just about to head home when I just couldn’t remember where I’d left the car…it must be back at the doctors, I thought. So, it took me ten minutes of retracing steps and standing with my hands on my hips looking around the car park before I realised: I hadn’t brought it. I haven’t had the car in weeks in fact. My wife takes it to work every day since she stopped working from home. If I could place a £100 bet on now that I’ll develop Alzheimer’s in the future I would, though maybe I wouldn’t remember I put it on anyhow.
Anyway, midweek I decided to grow a moustache. I did it during COVID as a boredom project and I liked twiddling it. I felt quite sophisticated too, but also a little bit like a rich pervert that speaks with an accent like Jacob Rees-Mog. This time I paired the moustache with the new glasses. My daughter took one look and said, “You look like a paedo.” Could it have been that the girl in Specsavers was laughing because she actually thought the same too? Within minutes, moustache gone and fresh-faced once again.
Feeling youthful and with a new spring in my step, I popped into the Co-op for a bottle of wine. Now, years ago, some bloke told me the dip in the bottom of a wine bottle—the “punt”—meant something. The deeper the punt, the better the wine. I was a little sceptical, but ever since I’ve enjoyed fingering wine bottles. If I can get three fingers in up to the knuckles, that one’s coming home with me.
The cashier caught me in the act, so I explained the theory. He loved it. Said he’d be fingering wine bottles on his next break. He doesn’t even drink wine. If I did one great thing today it was spreading this superb fact to others. I later discovered via some publican friends that it’s definitely not a fact, but it’s not going to stop me fingering them and spreading the joy.
My working week is always odd because I somehow juggle three completely different jobs. One minute I was interviewing an elderly woman from Perry Barr about her local art club and talking about different artistic mediums, the next I’m talking to a bloke from Birmingham, who has just won a Guinness World Record for the biggest ever car boot sale… and then suddenly I’m on a Zoom call with the Head of Privacy at a bank with half-a-dozen suited people helping to review privacy impact assessments. My head is fucked. No wonder I didn’t know if I came out in my car or not.
In between this madness, I’m hanging washing on the line, cleaning cat shit and hoovering.
During the call with the bank, my ring doorbell announced: “Someone is at front door.” A quick apology from me, and I ignored the door. Seconds later, out of the corner of my eye, my bearded, spectacle-wearing (now-he-definitely-looks-like-a-pedo) window cleaner appeared at the kitchen window, signalling with his hand with an eager look in his eye.
I’m listening intently to this important live call, but I managed to check my pockets subtly, discover I have no cash on me and move my hand to the side, out of camera view to give what I can only describe as the international hand symbol for – can you come back, I’m on a call. He gave me a thumbs-up and left. Five minutes later a note came through the door: “Windows cleaned.” No shit.
The thought then ran through my head: what if I would have been naked? It’s not impossible. I made a mental note to keep the blinds closed in the kitchen during the day moving forward around the time of his visits. The window cleaner saga reminded me of a 9am Zoom meeting I once had where I wandered downstairs at 8:45am in pyjama bottoms, no top, hair like I’d been raised by wolves. I logged in and of course, my camera was on. For about three seconds, everyone got a full view of me looking like Tom Hanks in the latter stages of that Castaway movie. I dived to the floor as soon as I noticed, but it was too late — the emojis were already rolling in. One colleague simply typed: “LOL, Tarzan.”
Still, not as bad as the Zoom disaster with one of my work colleagues and a packed meeting. He had his video off but forgot to mute his mic and spent the next 10 minutes muttering “cunt” under his breath and huffing and puffing while they were talking. I tried to alert him on Slack, but he didn’t see it and no one mentioned anything in the meeting until he went “fuck’s sake….nob” and his boss asked him to mute his mic. He was gone within two weeks.
Despite plenty of Zoom meetings, I do miss the company of my wife who worked alongside me for many years in the kitchen, but now she’s got a proper job where she’s out the house so once the kids go to school I’m alone. I like it, but it’s quiet and whenever I get the opportunity to speak with someone I usually do. Inevitably that’s one of the delivery people who turn up daily at the door. This week, it was no different.
I had an odd conversation about cats with the Royal Mail lady. For some reason, I felt compelled to tell her we have three cats and she said she often sees a miserable looking one at the window. She said she can’t have cats as she’s allergic, so I told her my cats (exotic shorthairs) are hypoallergenic. I’m allergic to cats and I’m not allergic to them. I remember someone telling me this ages ago, so this is why we bought this cat type. I told her they won’t affect her allergies. She looked quite excited, perhaps contemplating a future life with cats. I was pleased to help.
However, back at my PC, I thought I better finally Google this after all these years and it turns out there’s no such thing as a hypoallergenic cat, just ones that shed less hair so they’re a bit better for allergies. Oh well. Another myth busted this week, and a realisation that I think my wife might have told me this so I’d agree to getting a cat. Unbelievable lies. The fact that I thought when I bought it that it’s hypoallergenic is perhaps the placebo effect in glorious action as I’m really not allergic to our three kitties.
I do love it when people knock the door if I’m not busy. Earlier this year I had the Jehovah’s Witnesses round three times in a month after I made the mistake of standing there chatting for ages about the state of the country and other International affairs. They must have thought I was genuinely interested in joining them because they kept coming back, until it got to the point where I stopped answering the door. It started to feel less like a friendly visit and more like stalking. Eventually, they even wrote me a handwritten letter, including my first name, inviting me to some kind of Jehovah’s Witness conference. Lovely blokes, but now I always check the door before answering — just in case they’re back, because I can’t face letting them down in person.
In the evenings this week, I’ve been playing a videogame called Baby Steps. In it, you play as Nate, a man-child in pyjamas who’s somehow forgotten how legs work. You move each noodle-like limb one at a time, desperately trying not to faceplant as you wobble up hills, trip over rocks, and collapse in puddles.
It reminded me of a time when I’d gone to watch the football and then stayed out for quite a while after. I’d drank a lot, but I don’t think I’d ever been so drunk – it felt like someone had spiked me. I zigzagged across roads giggling to myself, remember singing walking down the High Street and falling in a bush. What I couldn’t remember at the time is that I then stuck both my middle fingers up at a neighbour’s ring doorbell while walking sideways like a crab – I only know this because he accosted me a few days later in an angry manner asking if I had an issue with him before showing me the footage on his phone. I then had a hazy recollection of doing just that.
It was a very humbling moment as he launched out of his house looking very aggressive. I ended up back-peddling and having to think on the spot. I did this by giving him the feeble excuse that I didn’t single him out, but I did it to all the ring doorbells on the way home because I had too much to drink and must have done it just to make myself laugh. I don’t know if that was the best response, but it’s what came out of my mouth. “I’m sorry mate, I actually haven’t got any real excuse for that childish behaviour, “ I did tell him. He shook my hand, laughed and forgave me. I thought it was a bit too cheeky under the circumstances to ask if he could send me the footage, but I reckon the crab move with middle fingers going up and down in perfect synchronicity alongside the right backing track would have gone viral.
The week ended fairly unremarkably… until Friday evening, when I was driving my daughter to youth club. A white van in front of us started swerving about, so I slowed down and kept my distance. Then, out of nowhere, two shoes flew out of the passenger window. I had to swerve slightly myself — like I’d accidentally joined a live game of Super Mario Kart. They landed neatly by the kerb while the van carried on as if nothing had happened.
I stopped to take a photo, but my brain wouldn’t let it go for the rest of the evening. Whose shoes were they? The passenger’s? The driver’s? Had someone been kidnapped and was trying to breadcrumb their way to freedom, only for me to ruin the plan by stopping to photograph their footwear instead of following the van?
I also wondered if it may have been a pair of passionate lovers, and it would escalate — follow them long enough and maybe a pair of trousers gets launched, then finally a pair of knickers slapping against my windscreen.
Sadly, I’ll never know. But it was, without question, odd.
So that was my week. I’m off to finger some wine bottles. See ya!
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